Monday, April 29, 2013

Admittedly, Toby's not so much scrubbed-up as sitting down in a sleepsuit and sucking on the bottle from Amelie's Baby Born doll, but he still looks pretty cute. As for his sister, she has the kind of fringe that would make Marie jealous, and could pass for about ten. Which should come in handy if I decide to turn to a life of crime. I could send her out shoplifting, safe in the knowledge that the Crimestoppers photofit would look more like Lindsay Lohan.

Anyhoo, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "Phil, the cute pictures of your children are all very well, but whatever happened to Hatebreed?". It's a question I'm asked all the time. And fortunately I'm in a position to answer it. As my mother is no doubt aware, Hatebreed are an American metalcore band who have spent the past twenty years fusing heavy metal and crossover thrash with hardcore punk to create a kind of Celtic Frost Hardcore. No, really. And they're currently living on a bus opposite Peter Pan's Playground on the seafront...

I'll be honest, this time yesterday I'd never heard of them. But I was standing in the playground with the children, and I couldn't help notice their Hotelbus. It's like the future of bed & breakfast. Travelodge might put the word 'travel' in there, but they don't actually take you anywhere. With Hotelbus, however, you could check-in in Brighton and wake up in Devizes. If you were really unlucky. Either way, it makes more sense than a static building, and Hatebreed are clearly making the most of it. They're like a modern day Cliff & The Shadows.

Obviously I was supposed to be watching the children, but in reality, I found myself watching Frank Novinec, former guitarist with Ringworm (I'm not making this up) emerge from the Concorde 2 music venue, and board the Hatebreed Hotelbus. Which is not something you see every day.

One thing I do see every day, however, is Amelie's old friend from playgroup. I don't know what it is about the seafront at the weekend, but every time we go down there, we meet the same family. As mentioned in this blog post, they've seen us there twice in the past month, and both times I was there without Lisa, so I'm beginning to think they live under the pier, and they're beginning to think we've split up.

Yesterday was no different. Lisa had a bad headache, possibly brought on by the stress of her coffee machine, so I took the kids out for a couple of hours while she had a lie down. We'd barely had time to buy ice creams when Amelie was reunited with her old friend...

Amelie's not getting any younger. She could pass for eleven. Her friend is in the year above her at school (not that Amelie's at school yet), but they look like a couple of teenagers out on the town. Albeit a town with colourful tarmac and a toddler slide. They've come a long way since this video.

You might notice that only one of them is wearing shoes, the other having cast them off with gay abandon, against the advice of her mother, in some kind of tribute to Sandy Shaw. Fortunately, that foot-based inequality was soon rectified...

Amelie's nothing if not easily led. Unless Lisa and I ask her to do something.

Sunday, April 28, 2013

Any day which ends with your niece posting this as her new Facebook profile picture, has to be considered a good one...

It means the stalker on the left might end up being identified and arrested for her serial crimes of harassment.

Obviously I'm no grass (although I'm a bit of a dope), but the rubber-faced loon on the left is actually Amelie yesterday afternoon, shadowing her cousin through the footwear aisle at TK Maxx. And behind them is Toby, hanging 3-3&half; feet off the ground. I think.

It made a change for someone to take a photo of Am, as she spent most of the day taking pictures of everyone else...

Although to be honest, that's a lot better than most of the ones I take, so I might delegate all my photography to my four-year-old daughter.

In case you're wondering, that's Toby's Shouty Face pictured above. He's not crying, he's just bellowing at a high decibel level. It's his new hobby. He's suddenly realised he's got a lot to say, and he's saying it at full volume. It's just a shame we don't know what he's talking about.

Anyhoo, my brother and his family are staying at my parents' house this weekend, and if there's one thing I learnt in Geography at school, it's that it costs less in petrol to get to Hastings than to Essex. Unless you live in Suffolk. So we went over there to see them yesterday. We did the same thing on last year's August bank holiday, but obviously a lot's changed since then...

My brother's leaning slightly further forward, and I've been left holding the baby. Although Lisa's no less knackered.

Our plan was to get up at our usual ungodly hour, and head straight over there after breakfast, but tragically Lisa was hit with the kind of calamitous full-scale disaster that made The Poseidon Adventure look like a minor boating incident. Yes, you've guessed it, her coffee machine stopped working.

Well, I say it stopped working. It actually continued working, but started spewing hot coffee grounds all over the floor. She attempted a total of five lattes during the course of the morning, and three of them resulted in her having to mop the kitchen lino and wipe brown sludge off the shelf. So she was unable to leave the flat until she'd phoned Tassimo and given them a piece of her mind. Which they said they'd look at if she sent it back to them with a prepaid label.

As Lisa pointed out at the time, it was like an alcoholic being asked to send off the keys to their liquor cabinet, so naturally it was quite a big deal, and she needed a certain amount of counselling to get through it. Fortunately, however, having researched the issue on the internet, it seems it was probably just a bad batch of coffee pods, rather than a faulty machine. So it looks like she can keep the wine cellar, and just return one bottle.

With the nightmare partially resolved, we eventually made it over to St Leonards bright and early at 1:45pm. Just as my brother and his family were going out for the afternoon. Undeterred, I decided to take Amelie to the local charity shops - a decision which proved particularly profitable, partly because we encountered a charity cake sale on the way, but mainly because I picked up an apparently brand new Next suit from the PDSA shop for only £7.99. Not only was it in my size, but it was in such perfect condition that I spent a good ten minutes standing in the shop, examining it, and trying to work out why it was only eight quid. I kept expecting to find a massive hole in the trousers, or a iron burn down the back.

In the end, I found the explanation: it had been priced up by an idiot. And I was just the man to take advantage. I'm not completely callous though. I let them keep the penny change.

I forgot to mention that I bought a genuine Versace denim jacket for £6.99 in the Hassocks branch of Help the Aged ten days ago, which is size XL, and fractionally too small for me. So with a new suit as well, I just need to lose a few pounds and I'll be set for both formal and casual situations. No one's going to believe I'm actually piss poor and living in squalor.

Anyhoo, having returned from the local charity shops, we rendezvoused with my brother, and went more upmarket by driving to TK Maxx and Poundstretcher. Lisa bought a new dress for considerably more than my suit, while I went in with the intention of buying a new shower head, and came out with a set of ice lolly moulds.

We eventually made it back to my parents' for tea, cake and enough food to give us gout, before relaxing on the sofas with my brother's family. Here's Toby bonding with his aunt...

It's hard not to look self-conscious when you're eating an iPhone and wearing a pair of socks on your head.

Friday, April 26, 2013

I don't want anyone thinking I'm dead, but quite honestly, unless someone can find a way of fitting twenty-five hours into each day, I'm not sure I'm going to find enough time for blogging. I've got four e-mails I'd like to write before bedtime, I still haven't finished our online grocery order for the weekend, and we're planning to be out all day tomorrow. We also have a lot of baby toys which aren't going to pick themselves up from the floor. I've managed to write 1200 words for my work newsletter (which is news in itself), but my blog's been firmly on the back burner. And the gas has gone out.

So while I get on with something far less appealing, here are some photos of my family...

That was first thing this morning, and this was lunchtime today...

Amelie told me she'd "made up Mummy like a cat". Which is odd, as cats don't wear make-up, and Lisa's more of a fox. But I can see the likeness. Not to a cat, obviously, but to Adam Ant.

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Just look at that hairy old cat with the white whiskers and soppy expression...

That's our good friend Andrew. But if you think we only associate with well-dressed, respectable pet owners, then think again...

The Greek playwright Euripides said that you can judge a man by the company he keeps. Which is worrying, as I count the bloke above as a mate. That's actually our old friend, Crash, facial hair aficionado, artist's model, and star of 'Never Mind the Buzzcocks'. He still hails from my old stomping ground of Ipswich, but he's now a professional treasure-hunter who spends his days roaming the countryside looking for crap he can flog to the gullible. He's like David Dickinson, only slightly more normal.

Fortunately for us, Crash's Bargain Hunt Roadshow rolled into Brighton on Sunday, so we popped up to the racecourse at lunchtime to pay him a visit and browse his vast range of collectables. Oddly, the pink spotted dress remained unsold at the end of the day, as did the Butlins Redcoat, but he was offered seventy quid for the skull of a dead stag. And he turned it down. So I think we might give up trying to sell Amelie's old clothes on eBay, and offer them Baby Antlers instead.

We learnt a number of things from our visit: firstly that we can't get anywhere on time, no matter how near it is to our flat (although I think we already knew that); secondly that the hideous furniture I grew up with is now considered retro chic and worth a fortune; and thirdly that God is destroying Shotley Gate, one house at a time. And I can't say I blame him. This delightful semi-detached home with the extended skylight is just yards from my old flat. And I'm not saying that everyone in that village knows each other, but I remember Ian Lord's wife as the head of the local dance school. I think she only married him so that she could call herself Lord of the Dance.

Anyhoo, I thank the Lord as my witness to that act of God, and pray they can resurrect the house. But in the meantime, I'm reminded of an entirely different bolt from the blue. It was actually a year ago on Sunday that we were blessed with the pitter-patter of tiny feet. And I don't mean Toby. Frankly he's too lazy to walk, and can still only crawl backwards.

It was actually the first birthday of our kittens...

That's Amelie having her cake and eating it, round at Stefan & Andrew's flat on Sunday. And frankly I needed some cake when we got there. Our journey from the car boot sale to their flat was a distance of about one mile. And it took us just over an hour. Which might have been ok if we'd crawled there backwards on our faces, but seemed less acceptable by car.

Unfortunately for us, and for Brighton as a whole, it was the March for England on Sunday, which meant the biggest police operation in twenty years, and traffic at a standstill. The march itself had finished an hour before we left the racecourse, but the running battles were continuing throughout our journey. Someone posted this photo on Twitter within minutes of us driving past...

... so frankly we were lucky to get through at all. By the time we'd got close to Queens Road, anti-fascists were gathering at the station, the area was swamped with police, and traffic ground to a halt again. We eventually made it into Brighton via a circuitous route through Hove, and arrived at Stefan & Andrew's an hour late, to the news that Zita had decided to celebrate her birthday by going missing. Which meant all the more cake for us.

Naturally her owners were worried, but we attempted to take their minds off it all by inviting them to become Toby's godparents. And I'm thrilled to say they agreed. Which means they're now contractually obliged to hold him whenever we ask...

Toby felt that Stefan would look better with a v-neck, which is a bit rich coming from someone dressed in a tablecloth.

Anyhoo, we threw in Amelie as a free gift to sweeten the deal...

... and before they had a chance to change their minds, we'd sealed it with two cups of tea and some birthday cake. Soon afterwards, we were roasting Rozi over eight flaming candles, and forming a search party to hunt for her sister.

We did a complete circuit of the block with Amelie miaowing like a kitten, Toby falling asleep, and the rest of us looking in wheelie bins and porches, but the search proved fruitless. In fact, we'd all but given up, until 6:30pm as we were preparing to go home, when the doorbell unexpectedly rang. Lisa suggested it might be Zita, which showed a level of optimism rarely seen outside of mental institutions, and suggested she'd got Andrew and Zita mixed up with Ashleigh and Pudsey.

But as it transpired, she was right. On the doorstep was a neighbour, who'd found Zita stuck in the basement two houses along. She'd fallen down, hit rock bottom, and scratched her nose...

... but other than that, she seemed fine. Although by that point, I'd wrapped up the rest of the birthday cake and hidden it in my bag, so her day didn't get any better.

Monday, April 22, 2013

I think Toby's caught the sun a bit...

That'll teach us to put the sofa outside. I'm not sure the pink frills suit him either.

Anyhoo, it's been a weekend of family fun in the red-hot sun...

Or the thick hooded coat and winter boots, if you're Lisa. Having discussed our domestic situation a couple of weeks ago, Lisa and I came to the conclusion that the best way for us to stave off stress, misery and a nervous breakdown is to avoid being in the same flat as the kids. So we resolved to spend our Saturdays out and about, in the hope that we might lose them and be able to come home on our own.

With the weather brightening up (momentarily), and the whole of Sussex as our oyster, there was obviously only one destination we could choose this weekend. Unfortunately it was closed, so we went to Crawley instead. It's conveniently situated near an airport, which allows for a quick getaway when the kids are distracted.

Having spent most of the morning trying to get organised enough to actually leave the flat, we eventually ended up at Tilgate Park, a large open space featuring woodland, lakes, animals, and excellent ice cream facilities. It gave us the chance to try Toby's dirt-cheap buggy on the dirt tracks of Crawley...

He might look a bit grumpy, but Amelie looks like a teenage mother, so he hasn't got much to complain about. The good news is that the buggy's so small and lightweight, we can get Amelie to push it. Preferably uphill and away from the lake. In fact, it's so small that Lisa's worried I've inadvertently bought a children's toy, and it should be carrying a Barbie doll instead of Toby.

In addition to most of the childcare, Amelie also took some of the photos, including this one of her parents...

I'm considering hiring her out for weddings and portrait work. But in the meantime, she's content to run riot in the playgrounds of Sussex. With acres of countryside to explore, Amelie naturally chose to spend most of her time on the swings, slides and climbing frames. She didn't even want to visit the Nature Centre. Although she did insist on an ice cream.

As it transpired, the playground was a hotbed of people we know. I was recognised by a receptionist from Crawley Hospital, while Lisa was accosted by the cousin of a friend. Frankly our chances of slipping away unnoticed were zero. So in the end I resorted to playing with my daughter. Here's me putting the 'foot' back into 'footage' like a young Daniel Day-Lewis...

I've always said that the way to control Amelie is with ropes and chains, and there's your proof right there.

Sunday, April 21, 2013

The problem with finally getting a weekend of sunshine after seven months of relentless rain, dismal drizzle and gathering gloom is that I'm too busy making the most of it to write a blog post. Let's face it, it could be the only weekend we get. We might look back on these two days as the summer of 2013. So rather than sit at a computer with CBeebies on the telly, I'm chucking the sunscreen in a bag and heading out of the door again.

But in the meantime, here's a picture of Toby in a dolls house...

Amelie's modelled that home on a house in West, Texas. I took the photo just before she closed the doors. And to be honest, I think he's still in there.

Friday, April 19, 2013

The big news of the day is that Lisa's Catholic devotions and Christ-like self-sacrifice over the past couple of years have finally paid off, and as of this afternoon, Amelie's been offered a place at our first choice primary school for September. It's enough to restore my faith in religion. Although I'm not promising to attend church.

I'm currently so full of celebratory pizza, there's every chance I could throw up over my laptop, but despite being giddy with educational success and on cloud nine in seventh heaven, I'm damned if I'm going to go another day without mentioning Matchbox Twenty. So here they are...

They've not changed a lot since we saw them five years ago. Although we were on the other side of the stage back then. Sadly, Jeff Russo of Tonic was replaced this time around by Matt Beck's beer soaked figure on the backing instruments. Matt played with the band when I first saw them in 2003 (I'd link to the blog post, but oddly, I didn't write about it. I know, I can't believe it either. Although I did mention the event here. Which also explains my lack of blogging at the time), but if memory serves me right, his wife was busy having a baby in 2008 (I know the feeling) so he failed to make the trip.

Anyhoo, Matchbox Twenty were excellent on Tuesday night. Although as my favourite band of the last ten years, I would say that. Kyle Cook has a much better hairstyle these days...

... and I successfully managed to cut Paul Doucette out of most of the photos on account of him being a mentalist who looks like he's having an epileptic fit during every chorus, and would probably be locked up if he wasn't a rock star. So here are the other three instead...

And here's a nice shot of the audience...

It makes me appreciate the zoom on my camera. I'd like to have been as close to the stage as the bloke who shot this video...

... but that would have involved buying standing-only tickets, and Lisa and I are far too old for that kind of nonsense. If we can't take the weight off our aching feet and put a tartan blanket over our knees, then frankly we ain't going.

Anyhoo, the song above is 'Push', and if you were unlucky enough to know me between 2003, when I first came across Matchbox Twenty, and 2010, when I was diagnosed with osteoarthritis in my fingers, you'll have heard me play that on the guitar. It was number one in my personal repertoire for about seven years, alongside 'Hang', which they surprised me by playing as an encore, and which almost brought me to tears in a kind of self-pitying why-can't-I-still-play-the-guitar kind of a way. Not that it's sad for everyone.

I'll post that performance purely for wallowing purposes...

... and because I was singing along at the top of my voice, so I like to think you can hear me in the background.

Ultimately though, despite my own musical status as a degeneration ex, Tuesday evening at the Hammersmith Apollo was an excellent night out, and what's more, Lisa managed to get a photo of me standing outside after only three attempts...

If I look tense, it's because I'd just realised I was standing on a ticket tout's patch, and I thought I was about to get knifed.

Thursday, April 18, 2013

It's me in front of the world famous Big Ben!

You'll have to take my word for that, obviously. Lisa's always struggled with composition. I was hoping for a picture of myself with the clock tower, London Eye and Palace of Westminster. You know, something like this...

What I got was a photo of myself with some traffic lights. She had another three attempts, but to be honest they were no better. She managed to cut me out of one of them. Frankly if this was twenty years ago, we'd have wasted a whole roll of film. As it was, the only thing exposed was Lisa's shortcomings as a photographer.

Anyhoo, if you're wondering why we spent Tuesday afternoon wandering around Westminster instead of congregating in a mosh pit, it's because we had a coffee date with Big Sis. And she moves in more powerful circles than we do. We'd arranged to meet her in the area at 3pm, but due to our desperation to get away from the kids, we were actually in London by 1:45pm. So with an hour to kill, we walked down Victoria Street to Westminster Abbey, and I took some photos of Lisa pretending to be Pippa Middleton. Although her back was turned, so she doesn't know.

There was some kind of Sikh rally taking place in Parliament Square, which seemed like an odd choice of venue to me. Personally I'd have held it in Hyde Park and called it 'Hyde & Sikh'. But that's just me. They've held a few protests in London recently, aimed at the Indian government's treatment of Sikhs, so I like to think of it as a form of turban renewal.

Anyhoo, we successfully rendezvoused with Big Sis, and grabbed ourselves some coffee and muffins, before heading to St John's Gardens, where I suggested that we pose for a civilised and sensible group photo. They assured me they were smiling behind me, so I set the self-timer and tried to look normal...

Next time I'm standing at the back.

Sis could only spare us an hour or so out of her busy work schedule, but she put that time to good use by educating us about the five love languages, a concept which neither Lisa nor I were aware of. So it's a miracle we're still together. Having discussed all five at great length, I discovered that Lisa is either multilingual or needy, while I just felt relieved that none of them were poetry.

From there, Lisa and I walked back along the embankment to Westminster, which is where we bumped into the Thatchers, after which I took some photos of the tabloid press to see how they like it, and we caught a tube train to Hammersmith. Once there, we made our way to the Villagio restaurant, where we met our old friend 'C'...

The last time we saw C, Lisa was wearing the same dress but in pink (which is what happens when you don't use Colour Catcher), and C presented us with a hand-made quilt for Toby. At the time she was working on one for Amelie too, but it wasn't quite finished, so we gave her another six months. And she duly completed it on Monday...

I'm not sure how much you'd expect to pay for a patchwork quilt which took its creator almost a year to make and incorporates fabrics from both Europe and America, but I'd guess at slightly more than nothing. Which is what we got it for. Basically, C gave us an original work of art, and in return, we let her pay for her own meal.

But despite that obvious inequality, we had a lovely couple of hours eating Italian food and catching up on the last six months of our respective lives. I thought the food was nothing special, but the company was excellent, and well worth the price of admission.

So with our second meeting of the day proving to be a roaring success, I offered to take a photo of Lisa's happy, smiling face...

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

You know what it's like. You pop up to London for a midweek rock concert, and you end up papping Sir Mark and Carol Thatcher...

They're looking towards the right wing mirror of the car. It's what their mother would have wanted.

Of course, I don't just limit myself to watching kind hearts and baronets. I also like to mingle with the liberal elite by chasing Vince Cable past Westminster Abbey on a Tuesday afternoon...

Cable's taking the lead and looking wiry as he flexes his muscles and plugs away towards parliament. There was a rule in London yesterday that everyone has to dress the same as the person next to them. Which is why I kept my distance from Lisa.

Within five minutes of that encounter, I'd bumped into Francis Maude at a pelican crossing, and brushed past David Willetts in a car park. Quite honestly, if I'd had my hands on some anthrax instead of a Creme Egg McFlurry, I could have wiped out most of the British establishment.

But yesterday wasn't just about big name celebrities. We also went to see Matchbox Twenty. And very good they were too. Unfortunately, Lisa and I are now at an age where a night out in London is enough to ruin us for a fortnight. And not just financially. Having been up since 6am yesterday with a vomiting baby, we were out until 1am last night, and then up again with the kids first thing this morning. As a result, we both feel like extras from the movie Zombie Apocalypse, only slower and more tired.

On the plus side, Toby's springtime vomiting virus fizzled out within twelve hours, and the boy seems fine now. In fact he's perkier than we are. Which isn't hard to accomplish. I think the full account of yesterday's adventures will have to wait until I can see a computer monitor without the aid of matchsticks...

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

I'm not after your pity (any more than usual), but it's officially a lifetime since Lisa and I last went out together on our own. The life in question is, of course, Toby's, but the fact remains that in the eight-and-a-half months that he's been roaming this planet, I've rarely been alone with my wife. Most childcare practitioners would baulk at the thought of having Amelie for a day, so when you add a baby into the mix, it's enough to put off Mary Poppins, and as a result, we've been confined to the flat as a couple.

But all that's about to change. Thanks to the combined forces of Nanny McPhee and Mrs Doubtfire (I'm not saying which is which), Lisa and I are being released back into the wild today, and given twelve hours of freedom to do whatever we like. Which in this case is 'get as far away as possible'.

I've taken two days off work, and in about an hour's time we'll be joined by the double-headed babysitting goddess of goodness that is my Mum and Lisa's Mum. Having taken temporary leave of their senses, they've agreed to pool their resources of childcare skills and experience, and take on our little angels for the rest of the day. So we'll need to get out of here quickly before they change their minds.

Having proven last Thursday how easy it is to get up to London, I'm escorting Lisa to the idyllic paradise of Hammersmith, where we'll be enjoying a day of fine whines, gourmet food and good music. We're actually going to see Matchbox Twenty at the Hammersmith Apollo. It's something I like to do once every five years, although the last two times have been at Wembley Arena, so the band are clearly on their way down in this country. Which is odd, as their latest album went straight to number one in America.

I feel a bit bad for not taking Amelie, as she came with us last time, and I know she enjoyed it by the way she gave Lisa raging heartburn, but to be honest, we can't wait to get away on our own. We might only be out for twelve hours, but we're packing in as much as we can. We're meeting Big Sis for a coffee this afternoon to get the lowdown on her latest holiday, after which we have a table booked at the Villagio restaurant in Hammersmith with our old friend 'C'. We've been looking forward to it for months.

Which is why it's a shame that Toby started projectile vomiting at 6am this morning. I'd planned to start our special day with a nice lie-in and a bubble bath. Instead, I was rocking the Marigolds & Pyjamas look at six-thirty as I wiped vomit off the carpet and furniture, changed all the bedding, and put two loads of washing on. You might think Toby looks sad...

... but that's nothing compared to how I felt first thing this morning. At 7am, our plans for a perfect day out lay in tatters, and the only place we looked likely to be going was the doctor's surgery.

But fortunately things have improved since then. Toby's managed to keep down a rusk, and despite being on red alert with a bucket and a j-cloth, I haven't had to clear up any more accidents. I'm touching every vomit-stained bit of wood as I say this, but I think we might still be going...

Monday, April 15, 2013

Needless to say, I haven't been the only one taking advantage of Toby's only-child status this weekend. While I've been busy making hay and coffee bars, Lisa's been attempting to make enough money to keep the wolf from the door and the bailiff out of work, by listing some more clothes on eBay. Amelie's now wearing outfits designed for girls aged 6-7, so at the age of four-and-a-half, we have a range of five-year-old's clothes she’s grown out of.

One of the highlights of her Spring 2012 wardrobe was this LOVELY (that'll be in Lisa's eBay description) Next daisy coat...

That's the photo Lisa's using to sell it. And here's the one I'm using…

Admittedly mine was taken a year ago, whereas Lisa's was yesterday afternoon, but I think mine's a lot cuter. Lisa's concerned about using it though, because she feels that Amelie looks less like a three-year-old and more like a two-foot-six midget, and she doesn't want people thinking the coat is for adults.

There is another option though. If you check out this blog post, you'll see that I have photos of Amelie wearing that coat with Patsy Palmer, Caroline Lucas and Vanessa Redgrave. So we can forget about whether it's childrenswear or dwarf attire, and market it as celebrity memorabilia.

Sunday, April 14, 2013

It's the Brighton Marathon today, so I'm as shocked as you are that I'm sitting here writing a blog post instead of pounding the streets in lycra. I did consider taking part this year, but having weighed up the pros and cons, I decided I couldn't be bothered to walk to the post box with my entry form.

So I'm staying in instead. And doing something far more tiring. To be honest, I've come to the conclusion that the phrase 'make hay while the sun shines' was coined by someone whose four-year-old daughter was out of town for a couple of days. Since Amelie left on Friday afternoon, I've been pondering all the things which are difficult to do when she's here. Like having a conversation without being interrupted. And I've prioritised them into a list of jobs to get done.

So I've just redecorated the living room. In a day. With some three-year-old paint. Since the Great Flood of 2013, we've had various water stains on the walls, but in addition to that, we suffer from the kind of perennial damp problem that would be more suited to the Amazon rainforest. It's more than a year since Amelie last redecorated, and to be honest she only did one corner, so having spent twelve months battling mould damage, pen marks, blu-tac stains and the effects of Ariel Automatic on our painted wallpaper, I decided the room needed a complete makeover.

Or failing that, a quick once-over with a roller. Having been around all four walls with some slightly lumpy paint, I've now eradicated the evidence of January's flood...

... so I hope the insurance company don't want to come round for a visit. Unfortunately, having started the job yesterday morning, the weather turned nasty, and before I knew it, we had torrential rain being blown on gale-force winds through the vent in the wall, and wet paint dripping down to the skirting board. So it wasn't what you'd call ideal. But it was easily fixed. I just moved the sofa in front of it, and pretended nothing had happened.

As it transpired, however, that wasn't my greatest achievement. The crowning glory of my weekend DIY was actually the creation of a brand new coffee bar in the kitchen. Although when I say 'coffee bar', I mean 'shelf'.

Despite having two children and a loving husband, the centre of Lisa's universe is currently her Tassimo coffee machine. Over the past few years, she's successfully replaced alcohol with caffeine, and now gets more excited by a latte than a pinot grigio, so I feel it's important for me to support her in this habit. Unfortunately, since getting her hands on a Tassimo last November, the machine has been situated in the living room, where it spouts out boiling water from a height of about twelve inches off the floor. Which isn't ideal when your baby's on the verge of becoming mobile.

So having slightly rearranged the kitchen furniture to make a new home for the ironing board, I eventually came up with this...

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "I didn't know you could buy shelves that are only 40cm wide". And that's because you can't. Not at B&Q anyway. Having browsed their entire range yesterday morning, I was forced to buy one that was two feet across, and then saw a bit off. I then painted it, fitted it, hoovered up all the sawdust, and ended up with the perfect new home for Lisa's coffee machine and her range of French syrups. It's basically a mini-bar for tee-totallers. And as a bonus, I've positioned it below the spice rack, so after a few weeks of steam treatment, we should have some home-made curry paste.

Friday, April 12, 2013

I came home from work today to find that Amelie had jumped ship and headed over to St Leonards to spend some quality time with my parents. She was telling us yesterday that the last time she was there, Grandma gave her a ham sandwich surrounded by sweets, so I'm not surprised she wanted to go back.

But in place of my daughter, I found a handwritten note she'd left behind for me on the table. It wasn't handwritten by her, obviously, but she'd personally dictated it to Lisa, who conveniently has the handwriting of a small child. So it couldn't have been more authentic. Amelie was responsible for the artwork, the signature and the sentiment. Which included five and a half kisses and a love heart. So here it is...

I think the butterfly in the heart represents the atrial flutter familiar to anyone who's tried to drag her up the hill from nursery without suffering a nervous breakdown. But it's a touching message nonetheless. And I miss her already.

Thursday, April 11, 2013

I was walking down this street at 10:45am this morning...

Clearly it was just me. Everyone else was fifty yards to the right, trying to get in through the back door.

That might look like a delightful Regency style street in the heart of Kemp Town, but sadly Brighton doesn't have a telecoms tower in the trees. Which is why you can't get an O2 signal at the hospital. The street above is actually Cornwall Terrace in London. Or rather, the buildings on the right are. The road is called 'Outer Circle', but when you've paid a few million for a three-storey town house opposite Regents Park, you need a classier sounding address. And besides, you're probably more inner circle than outer.

So the row of houses is named separately. Which is why no one can find Cornwall Terrace on a map, and your friends end up in the mews around the back, trying to get a leg up over the wall.

Officially I was there for this...

... but it's only a few doors down from the most expensive terraced house in the world, so it also gave me a chance to check out where I'll be living when my EuroMillions numbers come up. Assuming they come up three or four times in consecutive weeks.

For me, attending the last council meeting in December was a lot like being Michael Palin without a camera crew, so I was tempted to pack enough supplies for an eighty day trip. But fortunately things went a lot more smoothly this time. I was walking past the Sherlock Holmes Museum in Baker Street less than two hours after leaving home. It was what you might call elementary.

The Royal College of Ophthalmologists is housed in a building which is compact and bijou enough to only be worth about twenty million or so, but they provided us with a good sized room, complete with some antique ophthalmic curiosities in a glass case. There were thirteen of us there, so it was a lot like The Last Supper, but with Bakewell tarts instead of bread, and no one to turn the water into wine.

Lunch consisted of a range of "Freshly Cut Sandwiches", an interesting description which suggested they could have been sitting there for a week, only to be chopped up that morning. Either way, they tasted nice, although I think someone had made a bit of a cock-up with the quiche. I'm no Delia, but I'm not sure a savoury flan should be made with sweet pastry.

It was a very productive day though, and I had a nice conversation over the third floor bannisters with someone on the second floor stairs who likes my writing. She was definitely looking up to me. Although it seemed to be hurting her neck. Ultimately though, the best thing about the day was that I made it out of there on time, hopped straight on a fast train, and made it back to Brighton in time to pick up Amelie from nursery. And I'm telling you now, I might be able to breeze into London and back with stress-free ease, but that walk up the hill with a moaning four-year-old felt like a nightmare of epic proportions.

Tuesday, April 09, 2013

It's not easy being Amelie's brother...

Although on the plus side, you'll never have to dress yourself. It's like having a personal stylist. Whether you want one or not. And oddly, he seems to like it. In fact, Toby's now so convinced that Amelie's trying to entertain him at all times, that he's started to laugh at her when she's just doing everyday tasks. The other day she dropped something down the side of his high-chair, and he started roaring with laughter at the sight of her picking it up. He's every comedian's dream audience. Although when you're four-and-a-half, it can get a bit wearing. She sometimes has to shout at him "Toby! I'm not doing anything funny!"

Anyhoo, on the subject of things which aren't funny, the visits from Lisa's old school friend have now stopped. But only because she's been sectioned. She actually turned up twice over the Easter weekend, before making one third and final visit last Tuesday. Each time her resolve wore thin more quickly, she stayed for less time, and at no point did we let her in. Although a couple of times she managed to gain access to the block, and a neighbour phoned the police.

Last week, however, we heard that she'd ended up in A&E, which was worrying as we had no idea what had happened. But it seems she's physically unharmed. We've since learnt that she's in a psychiatric ward at Worthing Hospital, waiting to be transferred back to Mill View under a Section 3 order, which is a level above the most common, and means she can be detained for up to six months. It's undoubtedly for the best, but is sad nonetheless.

So here's a portrait of Toby to cheer us all up...

That's how he looks when Lisa styles him. It's nice, but he lacks a certain something. I'm not sure if it's a tiara or lipstick.

Sunday, April 07, 2013

I don't know if it's the influence of television, or just an innate tendency towards rudeness, but Amelie's started bidding people farewell with the words "See you later, suckers!". I wouldn't mind, but she said it to me and Toby as she left for church this morning, which seemed slightly inappropriate. Although I suppose if we're the only two members of the family not going to heaven, it could be quite fitting.

Either way, I've told her she needs to get a grip...

It's quite impressive that she can get little Tobalobe to lay down his sweet head (with its squeaky clean hair) just by singing the words in a song. I can sense a future for that girl as a prison visitor, calming people on death row by serenading them through the bars. Although it could lead to nose injuries if they're anything like Toby.

Anyhoo, on the subject of naps (this is seamless), my tip for the Grand National may have come a valiant second, but if you're thinking I didn't pick the winner, you need to think again. I actually picked it on Friday. In the office sweepstake. Yes, Auroras Encore was one of the three horses I picked out of my colleague's woolly hat when I should have been working. I may have referred to it as a donkey, but even donkeys can run if you give them a kick up the ass, and sure enough, mine romped home, netting me the pot of £27.

Tragically, and to my eternal regret, we agreed that the winner would buy cakes for the whole department, so I was forced to visit Asda last night to see just how little I could get away with spending on baked goods. They had a Smart Price cheesecake reduced for quick sale to just 57p, which was mightily tempting, but in the end I decided I should spend at least twice that.

In addition to that win, I also collected on Cappa Bleu. I was utterly convinced that he'd complete the race and be there or thereabouts, but as the world's most cautious gambler, I decided to hedge my bets a little...

I not only backed him to win, but to place in the first four, the first six and the first ten. It's what you call covering all the bases. Admittedly I'd have won more if I'd put just a tenner on each-way, but using this method meant that if he'd fallen at the last fence, he'd have had time to get back up, dust himself down, sign a few autographs, and still finish in time to make me some money.

So it was a successful afternoon. I even found the time to give my daughter the little push she needs...

It's like a scene from 'The Birds' at the end. I stopped filming before they all settled on the climbing frame.

Saturday, April 06, 2013

Well, I've gone through the runners like Mo Farah at the Olympics, and studied the form with a hard head, a magnifying glass and a sharp pin, and having weighed everything up, I've come to the conclusion that this is the easiest Grand National in years. And also the most difficult. There are about twenty-five horses who couldn't win if you strapped them to the back of a motorbike and built ramps over every fence, so you can rule out more than half the field straightaway. Unfortunately I can't choose between the others.

One thing I will say, however, is that Seabass, the hotly-tipped favourite, won't win. Ten million people might have backed it, but they're all wrong.

So that's that cleared up. More interesting are the horses which abide by my most closely guarded racing secret - you know, the one I revealed on this blog eight and a half years ago. Namely that every horse who has a wind operation goes on to win their next race. That brings in Across The Bay and Chicago Grey, both of whom had breathing operations in the winter, and both of whom have obliged by winning since. The question is whether that form will continue. My heart is screaming at me to back Across The Bay at around 50-1, but my head says Chicago Grey.

As does one of my patients. We had a tip at work from a patient who claims to have paid for three holidays in the past year from the proceeds of his betting, and he's told us to back Chicago Grey. Which I have done. But I'm not sure it'll win. I actually prefer one of the other top five. So here are my predictions...

1st. Cappa Bleu at 12-1. He finished fourth last year, has slightly less weight to carry, has had a better prep, and should be ridden more effectively. I can't see how he can possibly lose. No, really.

2nd. Join Together at 25-1. Loves long distances, and is proven over the big fences, so is virtually guaranteed to finish, and at a pretty good price. If Lisa had any money, I'd steal it and put it all on this one each-way.

3rd. Chicago Grey at 12-1. Impossible to leave out, and actually he may well win, but stubbornness prevents me from naming him as the winner. He'll be in the first three though.

4th. Colbert Station at 14-1. His odds have been drifting out this morning, which is worrying, but at one point last night, I had this one down as the winner. He's got very little experience, but I think that simply means that we don't know how good he is. He'll probably either win or come nowhere, and my money's on the former.

5th. Soll at 40-1. I have to put one outsider in, and there's no other choice. Soll has no weight to carry, should stay the distance, can jump well, and is on offer at big odds. I've backed him to place.

So there you go. I can't quite believe that I've left out On His Own, who has an outstanding chance of being in the first five, and I like Rare Bob and Balthazar King too, but you have to draw the line somewhere. And I've drawn it through Seabass. He'll be like a fish out of water, and should be a net loss for the punter. You heard it here first.